第 24 页

voice had a sound of the eagerness he wished he could feel. "Only, if it had

some unity, some...some central idea...which is there and isn’t...if it seemed

to live...which it doesn’t...It lacks something and it has too much....If it

were cleaner, more clear-cut...what’s the word I’ve heard used?--if it were

integrated...."

Roark turned. He was at the other side of the table. He seized the sketch, his

hand flashed forward and a pencil ripped across the drawing, slashing raw black

lines over the untouchable water-color. The lines blasted off the Ionic columns,

the pediment, the entrance, the spire, the blinds, the bricks; they flung up two

wings of stone; they rent the windows wide; they splintered the balcony and

hurled a terrace over the sea.

It was being done before the others had grasped the moment when it began. Then

Snyte jumped forward, but Heller seized his wrist and stopped him. Roark’s hand

went on razing walls, splitting, rebuilding in furious strokes.

Roark threw his head up once, for a flash of a second, to look at Heller across

the table. It was all the introduction they needed; it was like a handshake.

Roark went on, and when he threw the pencil down, the house--as he had designed

it--stood completed in an ordered pattern of black streaks. The performance had

not lasted five minutes.

Snyte made an attempt at a sound. As Heller said nothing, Snyte felt free to

whirl on Roark and scream: "You’re fired, God damn you! Get out of here! You’re

fired!"

"We’re both fired," said Austen Heller, winking to Roark. "Come on. Have you had

any lunch? Let’s go some place. I want to talk to you."

Roark went to his locker to get his hat and coat. The drafting room witnessed a

stupefying act and all work stopped to watch it: Austen Heller picked up the

sketch, folded it over four times, cracking the sacred cardboard, and slipped it

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into his pocket.

"But, Mr. Heller..." Snyte stammered, "let me explain...It’s perfectly all right

if that’s what you want, we’ll do the sketch over...let me explain..."

"Not now," said Heller. "Not now." He added at the door: "I’ll send you a

check."

Then Heller was gone, and Roark with him; and the door, as Heller swung it shut

behind them, sounded like the closing paragraph in one of Heller’s articles.

Roark had not said a word.

In the softly lighted booth of the most expensive restaurant that Roark had ever

entered, across the crystal and silver glittering between them, Heller was

saying:

"...because that’s the house I want, because that’s the house I’ve always

wanted. Can you build it for me, draw up the plans and supervise the

construction?"

"Yes," said Roark.

"How long will it take if we start at once?"

"About eight months."

"I’ll have the house by late fall?"

"Yes."

"Just like that sketch?"

"Just like that."

"Look, I have no idea what kind of a contract one makes with an architect and

you must know, so draw up one and let my lawyer okay it this afternoon, will

you?"

"Yes."

Heller studied the man who sat facing him. He saw the hand lying on the table

before him. Heller’s awareness became focused on that hand. He saw the long

fingers, the sharp joints, the prominent veins. He had the feeling that he was

not hiring this man, but surrendering himself into his employment. "How old are

you," asked Heller, "whoever you are?"

"Twenty-six. Do you want any references?"

"Hell, no. I have them, here in my pocket. What’s your name?"

"Howard Roark."

Heller produced a checkbook, spread it open on the table and reached for his

fountain pen.

"Look," he said, writing, "I’ll give you five hundred dollars on account. Get

yourself an office or whatever you have to get, and go ahead."

He tore off the check and handed it to Roark, between the tips of two straight

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fingers, leaning forward on his elbow, swinging his wrist in a sweeping curve.

His eyes were narrowed, amused, watching Roark quizzically. But the gesture had

the air of a salute.

The check was made out to "Howard Roark, Architect."

11.

HOWARD ROARK opened his own office.

It was one large room on the top of an old building, with a broad window high

over the roofs. He could see the distant band of the Hudson at his window sill,

with the small streaks of ships moving under his fingertips when he pressed them

to the glass. He had a desk, two chairs, and a huge drafting table. The glass

entrance door bore the words: "Howard Roark, Architect." He stood in the hall

for a long time, looking at the words. Then he went in, and slammed his door, he

picked up a T-square from the table and flung it down again, as if throwing an

anchor.

John Erik Snyte had objected. When Roark came to the office for his drawing

instruments Snyte emerged into the reception room, shook his hand warmly and

said: "Well, Roark! Well, how are you? Come in, come right in, I want to speak

to you!"

And with Roark seated before his desk Snyte proceeded loudly:

"Look, fellow, I hope you’ve got sense enough not to hold it against me,

anything that I might’ve said yesterday. You know how it is, I lost my head a

little, and it wasn’t what you did, but that you had to go and do it on that

sketch, that sketch...well, never mind. No hard feelings?"

"No," said Roark. "None at all."

"Of course, you’re not fired. You didn’t take me seriously, did you? You can go

right back to work here this very minute."

"What for, Mr. Snyte?"

"What do you mean, what for? Oh, you’re thinking of the Heller house? But you’re

not taking Heller seriously, are you? You saw how he is, that madman can change

his mind sixty times a minute. He won’t really give you that commission, you

know, it isn’t as simple as that, it isn’t being done that way."

"We’ve signed the contract yesterday."

"Oh, you have? Well, that’s splendid! Well, look, Roark, I’ll tell you what

we’ll do: you bring the commission back to us and I’ll let you put your name on

it with mine--’John Erik Snyte & Howard Roark.’ And we’ll split the fee. That’s

in addition to your salary--and you’re getting a raise, incidentally. Then we’ll

have the same arrangement on any other commission you bring in. And...Lord, man,

what are you laughing at?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Snyte. I’m sorry."

"I don’t believe you understand," said Snyte, bewildered. "Don’t you see? It’s

your insurance. You don’t want to break loose just yet. Commissions won’t fall

into your lap like this. Then what will you do? This way, you’ll have a steady

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job and you’ll be building toward independent practice, if that’s what you’re

after. In four or five years, you’ll be ready to take the leap. That’s the way

everybody does it. You see?"

"Yes."

"Then you agree?"

"No."

"But, good Lord, man, you’ve lost your mind! To set up alone now! Without

experience, without connections, without...well, without anything at all! I

never heard of such a thing. Ask anybody in the profession. See what they’ll

tell you. It’s preposterous!"

"Probably."

"Listen. Roark, won’t you please listen?"

"I’ll listen if you want me to, Mr. Snyte. But I think I should tell you now

that nothing you can say will make any difference. If you don’t mind that, I

don’t mind listening."

Snyte went on speaking for a long time and Roark listened, without objecting,

explaining or answering.

"Well, if that’s how you are, don’t expect me to take you back when you find

yourself on the pavement."

"I don’t expect it, Mr. Snyte."

"Don’t expect anyone else in the profession to take you in, after they hear what

you’ve done to me."

"I don’t expect that either."

For a few days Snyte thought of suing Roark and Heller. But he decided against

it, because there was no precedent to follow under the circumstances: because

Heller had paid him for his efforts, and the house had been actually designed by

Roark; and because no one ever sued Austen Heller. The first visitor to Roark’s

office was Peter Keating. He walked in, without warning, one noon, walked

straight across the room and sat down on Roark’s desk, smiling gaily, spreading

his arms wide in a sweeping gesture: "Well, Howard!" he said. "Well, fancy

that!" He had not seen Roark for a year. "Hello, Peter," said Roark.

"Your own office, your own name and everything! Already! Just imagine!"

"Who told you, Peter?"

"Oh, one hears things. You wouldn’t expect me not to keep track of your career,

now would you? You know what I’ve always thought of you. And I don’t have to

tell you that I congratulate you and wish you the very best."

"No, you don’t have to."

"Nice place you got here. Light and roomy. Not quite as imposing as it should

be, perhaps, but what can one expect at the beginning? And then, the prospects

are uncertain, aren’t they, Howard?"

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"Quite."

"It’s an awful chance that you’ve taken."

"Probably."

"Are you really going to go through with it? I mean, on your

own?"

"Looks that way, doesn’t it?"

"Well, it’s not too late, you know. I thought, when I heard the story, that

you’d surely turn it over to Snyte and make a smart deal with him."

"I didn’t."

"Aren’t you really going to?"

"No."

Keating wondered why he should experience that sickening feeling of resentment;

why he had come here hoping to find the story untrue, hoping to find Roark

uncertain and willing to surrender. That feeling had haunted him ever since he’d

heard the news about Roark; the sensation of something unpleasant that remained

after he’d forgotten the cause. The feeling would come back to him, without

reason, a blank wave of anger, and he would ask himself: now what the

hell?--what was it I heard today? Then he would remember: Oh, yes,

Roark--Roark’s opened his own office. He would ask himself impatiently: So

what?--and know at the same time that the words were painful to face, and

humiliating like an insult.

"You know, Howard, I admire your courage. Really, you know, I’ve had much more

experience and I’ve got more of a standing in the profession, don’t mind my

saying it--I’m only speaking objectively--but I wouldn’t dare take such a step."

"No, you wouldn’t."

"So you’ve made the jump first. Well, well. Who would have thought it?...I wish

you all the luck in the world."

"Thank you, Peter."

"I know you’ll succeed. I’m sure of it."

"Are you?"

"Of course! Of course, I am. Aren’t you?"

"I haven’t thought of it."

"You haven’t thought of it?"

"Not much."

"Then you’re not sure, Howard? You aren’t?"

"Why do you ask that so eagerly?"

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"What? Why...no, not eagerly, but of course, I’m concerned, Howard, it’s bad

psychology not to be certain now, in your position. So you have doubts?"

"None at all."

"But you said..."

"I’m quite sure of things, Peter."

"Have you thought about getting your registration?"

"I’ve applied for it."

"You’ve got no college degree, you know. They’ll make it difficult for you at

the examination."

"Probably."

"What are you going to do if you don’t get the license?"

"I’ll get it."

"Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you now at the A.G.A., if you don’t go high hat on

me, because you’ll be a full-fledged member and I’m only a junior."

"I’m not joining the A.G.A."

"What do you mean, you’re not joining? You’re eligible now."

"Possibly."

"You’ll be invited to join."

"Tell them not to bother."

"What!"

"You know, Peter, we had a conversation just like this seven years ago, when you

tried to talk me into joining your fraternity at Stanton. Don’t start it again."

"You won’t join the A.G.A. when you have a chance to?"

"I won’t join anything, Peter, at any time."

"But don’t you realize how it helps?"

"In what?"

"In being an architect."

"I don’t like to be helped in being an architect."

"You’re just making things harder for yourself."

"I am."

"And it will be plenty hard, you know."

"I know."

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"You’ll make enemies of them if you refuse such an invitation."

"I’ll make enemies of them anyway."

The first person to whom Roark had told the news was Henry Cameron. Roark went

to New Jersey the day after he signed the contract with Heller. It had rained

and he found Cameron in the garden, shuffling slowly down the damp paths,

leaning heavily on a cane. In the past winter, Cameron had improved enough to

walk a few hours each day. He walked with effort, his body bent.

He looked at the first shoots of green on the earth under his feet. He lifted

his cane, once in a while, bracing his legs to stand firm for a moment; with the

tip of the cane, he touched a folded green cup and watched it spill a glistening

drop in the twilight. He saw Roark coming up the hill, and frowned. He had seen

Roark only a week ago, and because these visits meant too much to both of them,

neither wished the occasion to be too frequent.

"Well?" Cameron asked gruffly. "What do you want here again?"